


Home

by MEVaughan



Category: Gentleman Bastard Sequence - Scott Lynch
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Comfort/Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fever, Fever Dreams, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Male Friendship, Post Red Seas Under Red Skies, Post-Lies of Locke Lamora, Sick Character, Sickfic, The Republic of Thieves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-16
Packaged: 2019-07-12 14:53:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15997529
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MEVaughan/pseuds/MEVaughan
Summary: "Home is…home is us, Jean. Me and you, together. It should have been Ezri too. I’m so sorry.”Locke takes care of a sick Jean, but as Jean's fever worsens, Locke may also have to tend to his best-friend's broken heart.Some angsty, hurt-comfort love between our two favourite Gentleman Bastards.





	1. Falling

**Author's Note:**

> The Gentleman Bastard Sequence belongs to Scott Lynch, and his publisher's respectively. I claim no ownership, and am using the characters and world for story-telling purposes only! 
> 
> Also, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY! :) So reviews are especially appreciated!

It was an alarming thing, to see a man of Jean Tannen’s size, strength and structure, swaying unsteadily on his feet. Locke wasn’t sure what help he’d be if his friend collapsed—he certainly wouldn’t be able to carry Jean back up to their bedroom, and Jean might well crush him, if he fell the wrong way.

“I’m fine,” Jean said.

“You’re a fine shade of a grey is what you mean. Gods, Jean! You can barely stand, for Perelandro’s sake—go back to bed, and I’ll have some broth fetched up for you.” Locke looked helplessly into Jean’s pale face. He’d gone to bed the night before, complaining of a headache, and had risen looking like death. The breakfast, which he had sworn would alleviate his symptoms and set him back on his feet, had proven to only be a temporary solution, and after two hours work out on the streets as their latest characters, Jean was ready to drop.

Locke had lured him back to their inn on the pretence that he’d forgotten something in their room. Only now had Jean realised Locke had no intention of letting him go out again.

“I am not going to be hurried off to bed like some coddled child with a light head-cold.”

“Gods,” Locke groaned, “the amount you complain about _my_ behaviour when I was indisposed—you’re just as much of a stubborn ass.”

“They say mimicry is the highest form of flattery,” Jean said. “And you’ve only been dealing with me sick for a _day._ I’ve had to handle weeks of you.”

“It’s a poor comparison, I know, but that doesn’t change the fact that you _are_ sick—and there, you admitted it yourself—so you should go to bed.”

“We have _work_ to do,” Jean reminded, and Locke threw up in his hands in frustration.

“Jean, unless you plan on presenting yourself to the brothers of the Aza Guilla, and saving them the trouble of collecting your miserable corpse, you’re in no fit state to go anywhere. Look at you, do you really mean to tell me you can manage another hour out there, let alone a day’s work?”

“Well, I—” Jean began, looking a little queasy at the prospect.

“Most of our work can wait, and whatever can’t, I’ll manage myself.”

“But you need me to—” Jean started, in objection.

“Sleep!” Locke finished. “You’re no use sick and stumbling on your own feet, and frankly I can’t concentrate with you looking like that. It’s alarming.”

Jean sighed. “Fine,” he relented. “I can’t pretend I’m not tired, and my head hurts like I’ve got a hatchet through it. I’ll rest a while, but tonight—”

“We’ll see if you can walk a hundred strides without looking like you’re going to empty your stomach, or kiss the pavement,” Locke said. “Bed. I’ll have the broth fetched—that thick one you like.”

Locke guided Jean up to the room, like a shepherd herding a wayward cow. Jean muttered beneath his breath, but it was too low for Locke to make out the words. Once he was sure Jean wasn’t going to make a valiant attempt to double-back and return to the street, Locke went down and ordered the food, as promised.

“My friend has taken a turn for the worst. Should the need arise, is there a physiker who can be called upon?” Locke asked.

“Master De Reilla has been called to us before,” the servant informed him. “We can send for him at your request.”

“Good, good,” Locke tipped the servant, and returned to the room.

It was a small, square apartment, broken into two by a small divide with a bed either side. There was a shared wash-room, and a small, but comfortable living quarter with its own fireplace, a set of chairs, a table and a large armour which was taller and wider than Jean, and which contained all of their clothes.

Locke found Jean settled onto the bed. He was still fully clothed and above the covers, as if he only intended to rest for a few minutes, before getting back up again. Locked crossed to the windows, and, opening them wide, he reached out and pulled the shutters in, hooking them together so that they were set in an open-tipped triangle, allowing a small beam of light into the room. Locke left the windows open, so that the air could circulate a little.

Jean exhaled softly, and Locke crossed over. He poked Jean in the side. “You’ll sweat through your good clothes.”

“Already have.”

“I’ll have them laundered—come on.”

Jean grumbled, and then slowly sat up. He quietly removed his doublet and the fine silk shirt he’d donned. Locke went to the other side of the room, poured Jean a glass of water, and brought it back. A knock on the door announced the arrival of the broth. Locke collected it, and set the bowl of Jean’s bedside table, before collecting his clothes, which had been fastidiously folded, despite the fact they were damn with sweat, and Jean was clearly exhausted.

“Eat, drink, go to sleep,” Locke commanded.

“Gods, you’re worse than Chains,” Jean murmured.

As children, living in such close quarters, it was inevitable that they had all gotten sick every now and again. Sometimes it would be nothing worse than a running nose and a tickling throat, in which case they were excused any cooking responsibility, but had to keep their studies. But when worse things reared their heads—and they _did_ —Chain’s had been surprisingly diligent and empathetic.

Calo had suffered from migraines, one of the few things he hadn’t shared with Galdo. They weren’t frequent, but when they came, he be excused from work, sent to bed, and have his food brought to him. The Gentleman Bastards might have accused him of faking it, in order to slack off, but Locke could all too easily remember Calo’s face, deathly beneath his natural colouring, his eyes squeezed closed, forehead beaded with sweat. He would barely touch his food, wouldn’t dare to drink, and would lie, curled in the darkness, shaking with the pain. Chain’s had brought in several physikers, and had called on even more alchemists to find an effective pain-relief. The medicine hadn’t come cheap, but Calo would sleep until the migraine had abated.

Sabetha had sometimes also been sent to bed, though she never went willingly. Sometimes during her bleeding week, usually on the first day, she’d crawl to the table, trying to hide the fact she was fighting every instinct in her body to crouch into a ball. Chains would take one look at her, order her to lie down, and have the boys heat some hot-towels. He would bring her a glass of her favourite citrus wine, and make sure she had a steaming bath ready for her, to combat the ache in her back and belly.

For himself, Locke remembered the summer when he was twelve. He’d fainted on the temple steps, whilst sitting there with Chains. One moment, he’d been looking out into the street, his vision distorted, thoughts as hazy as the blaze of the sun as he watched vapours rising from the baked streets, and the next, gentle hands had been touching his face, and he’d found himself lying flat on the cool stone, inside the temple. Chain’s had held a cup to his lips and made him drink in small sips, wiping Locke’s forehead with a damp cloth. A heat-fever, he’d called it. Locke remembered the shakes, the vomiting, the dizziness that struck if he so much as _thought_ about standing up…But Chains had been there, his voice a low rumble as he held Locke’s head, keeping him steady as he emptied his guts.

Locke had returned the favour, over and over, in the weeks before Chain’s had died, when the old man had been bed-bound, coughing and delirious. He’d died in his sleep, with Locke dozing, exhausted, in the chair beside the bed.

“Locke?” Jean said, and Locke blinked, breaking from his thoughts. He realised he hadn’t risen to Jean’s jibe, and forced a smile.

“Do you need me to spoon-feed you?”

“Oh piss off.”

“I can dab at your forehead, and murmur quiet reassurances.”

“Get out.” Jean picked up the bowl of broth, and took a sip. He closed his eyes, tipping back against the pillows. Locke grinned in earnest this time, and taking the clothes out with him, he left Jean to rest.


	2. Obstinate

Locke hit the streets. Their current facades were of two representatives from a minor noble house in Emberlain, sorting out their employer’s affairs in the wake of the King’s death. Locke had taken the name Lorcon Demaistro, and Jean was Jacques Giovani. The latest con was much less ambitious than the Sinspire Game—a few months of worth. Locke was building back up to something larger, but they needed capital, and they needed the win.

That afternoon, they were supposed to stage a public disagreement about a offer made on the property they were supposedly selling on behalf of their master. Said property, of course, didn’t exist, and their master, Lord Kalius Pitguard, a young man who had supposedly inherited a manor house and money in Emberlain from his Uncle at just the wrong time, was equally as fictitious. Fortunately, war made for short memories, and Locke had found that if he spoke about a person with enough conviction, most of polite society would fabricate memories for themselves. There was a handful of people now who, not only believed that Lord Kalius Pitguard existed, but that they’d actually _met_ both him, and his diseased Uncle. Locke had even managed to convince one woman that she’d attended a soiree in the very non-existent house they were currently trying to sell.

The Game was easy.

Major nobles were battling it out, each claiming ownership of a throne which was still warm it was so recently vacated. The smaller families, meanwhile, were trying to relocate elsewhere, rather than get caught in the mess. Everyone was related to everyone, after all, and having a title in Emberlain currently put you one step closer to the throne, and three steps closer to an early grave, if you weren’t careful enough.

Eager upstarts, rushing to the city were quick to scoop up the lucratively placed properties abandoned by the nobles who were just as eager to get out. It was a buyer’s a market, but only for now.

Locke had narrowed in on a Lashani Noble named Primavera, who’d bought his title, and was now eager to buy his way into the highest society, even if only to say he _had_ property in Emberlain, if never to actually live in it. Most of the months of preparation Locke and Jean had put down had been cementing Lorcon and Jacques’ reputation within the right circles, so that when their lucrative, tantalising offer was raised up, no questions would be asked—who would even guess the property _didn’t actually_ exist?

Of course, Locke wasn’t stupid enough to expect any mark to hand over full payment for a house they hadn’t seen, but with property being bought up quicker than hot-cakes, it would hardly be unusual to provide a small down-payment. It would be a mere tenth of the property’s value, which would reserve the property until the buyer had decided whether to go through with the investment.

That tenth, if Locke and Jean played their cards right, would still leave then with the equivalent of over two thousand solons, which they could merrily take and disappear with. Not a bad haul, for a couple of month’s work.

With Jean indisposed, Locke had to improvise. Their staged argument was supposed to be the first that their target heard of the property being for sale—not directly, mind, the news was supposed to flitter up through whispers, spread by Primavera’s confidents and spies—but that was now out of the question. Locke couldn’t just go to a public space and start raving to himself…At least, not without raising unwanted attention.

So instead, he pulled up the set of blueprints they’d been reserving for later, put them among a stack of papers, and accidentally tripped and dropped those papers in the square, just beside the table where Primavera’s accountant was dining. The man helped Locke gather his things, and paused on the blueprints of the house.

“Now that’s a fine building!”

“Indeed—my master’s property in Emberlain,” Locke replied, taking the papers, and leaving without further word. The implication of having blue-prints drawn up was enough, but Locke had also slipped in a letter of appraisal, in-case the accountant wasn’t quick on the uptake. Many people asked for appraisal’s before they invested in properties—architects would survey the house and value its worth, giving estimates for repairs required, and assessing whether everything was structurally sound. Needless to say, the assessment on Locke’s fabricated building had been very, very good.

Locke was sure that, by the end of the week, Primavera would be making enquiries. The best marks were always the ones who thought _they_ were being clever.

Feeling satisfied that his work was done, Locke returned to the inn, and quietly crept up to the room. It was dark inside, and cool. Locke gently shut the door behind him, removing his jacket and listening out for any sign that Jean was awake. He could hear long, deep breaths and guessed the other Gentleman Bastard was still asleep.

Slipping further into the room, he looked in on Jean. The big man was curled on his side, the covers kicked back. In the slim ray of fading light, Locke could see a sheen of sweat on Jean’s skin. Quietly moving over, he drew the covers back over Jean’s body, brushing the back of his fingers to Jean’s forehead. Warm—a fever. Best to sweat it out. Locke found that Jean had only managed half of the broth, and deliberated on whether to call up more food, and wake Jean up, or leave him to sleep a while longer.

He decided on the latter.

Returning to the sitting area, he pulled up a book and settled into his chair. It was a droll read; a history of Emberlain royalty. Locke had already been through it about three times, revising his knowledge so he could speak on the subject with ease. He reread the first few chapters, got bored, and switched to cards, practising a few choice tricks.

Across the room, Jean gave out a long groan, and Locke went over to him.

Jean’s eyes were open, and glassy, his hair a ruffled mess. Locke observed him worriedly. “You’re awake?”

“Gods,” Jean’s voice was scratchy, “my head. What have I been drinking?”

“Not enough, apparently. Here,” Locke passed Jean his glass of water, “finish that. How’s the pain?”

“Don’t speak so loud,” Jean said. Locke had been whispering.

“That bad?”

“Gods…” Jean drank deeply. His skin was shining with sweat. Locke frowned, and touched Jean’s forehead again. He was even warmer than before—hotter than a burning, alchemical hearth-stone.

“I’ll get a physicker,” Locke said.

“Not necessary.”

Locke was already up. “Just rest. I’ll be right back.”

“You obstinate ass.”

“What was it you said about mimicry and flattery?” Locke refilled Jean’s glass, and left the room with a little wave.


	3. Fire

*

 

Locke was awoken by gasping and spluttering in the night. His senses, dulled my sleep, were alive and alert instantly. He rolled from the bed, orientating himself, then ran to Jean.

It was well into the early hours of the morning, the sky outside pitch black, rain knocking against the shutters. The room was lit by the pale yellow glow of a dying fire. In his bed, Jean’s head was thrashing from side to side, his limbs tangled up in his sheets which were soaked through. He groaned. Locke touched his arm, wincing at the heat which radiated off Jean’s skin.

The physicker hadn’t been able to offer much. He’d given Jean a tea brewed from tree bark and leaves and said he would be back in the morning. Jean had muttered about wasted money, but had drunk the tea, and promptly fallen back to sleep.

Now he looked like he’d been running, his face red, hair stuck to his forehead by rivers of sweat which made his skin gleam. He was breathing heavily, heat rising off of him, as he thrashed in some invisible fight. Locke gripped Jean’s shoulder.

“Jean? You’re dreaming—wake up.”

Jean didn’t respond, head moving from side to side, muscles tensing, and letting go. His teeth were set, expression scrunched together like he was in the middle of a fight. His breath was short and hard.

“Jean—Jean, wake up,” Locke shook him a little harder.  “Jean—Gods!” Locke swore, as all at once, Jean’s hand snatched up and grabbed him by the wrist, yanking him down. Locke felt his wrist bend back, and had to drop to his knees quickly before it was broken. Jean’s other hand snapped out, curling around his neck, fingers gripping tightly.

“Got you, you _bastard_!” Jean hissed, dragging Locke forward. Locke struggled, gasping and slapping at Jean’s face and arms urgently.

“Jean!” he choked out, hitting and scratching at the hand tightening around his throat. “It’s me—ach!” He words barely made it out. Locke felt tears of pain prickling to his eyes. “Jean!”

There was half a moment, and then Jean’s fingers retracted like he’d touched a burning coal. “Locke?”

Locke toppled back onto the floor, coughing and spluttering. “Ow!”

“Locke—what’s—” Jean tried to rise from the bed, but Locke put up his hand, signalling for him to stay back. “Are you—”

“I’m fine. It’s fine,” he said, his voice strained. His neck throbbed, and would be probably bruise and swell, but he’d been through worse. By Jean’s confusion, he suspected Jean didn’t actually know what he’d done. Best not to mention it—the truth would out, eventually, but for now... “You were dreaming.”

On the bed, Jean was still breathing hard. “I was? No, I was…Drakasha.”

“You dreamt you were back on the Poison Orchid?” Locke picked himself up.

“I was there,” Jean muttered. “We were being attacked. I was with…Ezri…” His eyes lost their brief focus, and he sank back into the pillow. He blinked, and tears appeared. “Ezri’s dead.”

Locke’s heart squeezed with pain. He slowly got to his feet. “You dreamt about her too?”

“She was…” Jean couldn’t finish. Two tears escaped, joining the stream of sweat. He gave a low moan, and covered his face. “Oh gods. This is…a fucking nightmare.”

Locke stood, frozen, watching as Jean hid his face into his knees. He shuddered with each breath. And then Locke got a hold of himself.  He felt his way across the dark room, and fetched a small towel and a bowl of cool water. He returned to Jean’s side, his friend lit by a small beam of moonlight, and coaxed him up, pushing Jean’s hands away from his face so he could mop his brow. Jean was either too grief-stricken or too sick to try and bat him away. He continued to cry, his heavy breathing descending into small, hiccupped moans.

“I can’t do this any more,” he whispered. “I can’t do it, Locke.”

It was like a heavy blow to the chest. Locke kept his voice even. “Yes you can.”

“No…No, this is…it’s too much.”

“You’re tired. You’re sick. Just rest—you’ll feel better.”

“No, no I won’t. She’s gone…My Ezri…She’s gone.”

Locke slipped the cloth to the back of Jean’s neck. He was burning hot. Locke swallowed with difficulty. What should he do? Run for the physicker? Was there anything the man could do? Locke wasn’t sure. He half rose, and then thought better of it, Jean’s hand landing heavy on his arm—not holding, but present…like a plea. Locke settled where he was.

“I loved her, Locke,” Jean said, and Locke nodded. He and Jean hadn’t really spoken properly about Ezri’s death—Jean had never had the time to really deal with it, what with Locke’s own health taking a plummet with the poison. Even so, Locke had known Jean was bottling it up inside, and now the fever seemed to have eased the cork out, and the flow of tears was unstoppable.  “I really…I really, really loved her.”

Locke didn’t say anything, just sat, listening, dabbing away at Jean’s sweat-soaked face.

“I should have been the one…not her…” Jean’s eyes squeezed closed. “I couldn’t save her, Locke.”

“Of course you couldn’t—she was saving _us._ All of us. She was a damn hero, that woman.”

 “I as good as _killed_ her.”

“That’s a fuck-ton of nonsense, and you know it,” Locke snapped. “You made her happy. Everyone saw it, everyone knew it. That’s the only part of any of this you can take responsibility for, Jean.”

“I wanted us…I wanted us to be together.”

“I know, Jean.”

“She…she would have made an e-excellent G-Gentleman Bastard,” Jean hiccupped, stuttering over his words.

“As far as I’m concerned, she _was_ one. One of us. Family.”

“I loved her,” Jean repeated. “I love her….Why do they keep dying?”

“Jean.” Locke’s own eyes were straining against tears now. He hated it—he hated seeing Jean so hurt. He hated the part he had to play in that. If only he’d reacted faster, if only it had been he who had gone down, in Ezri’s place…

“They were all taken…by fire,” Jean said. “All of them…my parents,” his voice choked out, “Ezri…And we b-burned home—the temple! We burned it all down.”

“That wasn’t home,” Locke said. “Not anymore. Home is…home is us, Jean. Me and you, together. It should have been Ezri too. I’m so sorry.”

“Locke,” Jean rasped, “does it all end in fire?”

Locke wished he could answer. He wished he could comfort Jean. Instead, he rested his hand on Jean’s arm, and squeezed it. “That’s a mystery for another day,” he said. “But for you and me? No. Not if I can help it.”

 _It ends with silver rain for me._ Locke didn’t vocalise that thought. What the fuck did Patience know anyway?

Jean wasn’t comforted. He shook under heaving sobs, and Locke’s chest felt like it was being hollowed out. He leant into Jean and held him. Jean’s arms reached up and wrapped around Locke desperately—another, very different kind of strangle-hold. Jean wept forcefully into his shoulder.

They stayed like this for a minute or so, until Jean’s exhaustion seemed to get the better of him. He went limp in Locke’s arms, and Locke negotiated him back down onto the bed. Jean’s eyes were still open a sliver, blood-shot, and glazed. He shivered.

“Sorry,” he said hoarsely.

“Oh shut up,” Locke slipped off the bed, so he could pull the covers back over Jean. “What have you got to be sorry for? Here—drink something.” He filled the glass of water, and pressed it into Jean’s hands. A second later, he knew he couldn’t let go—all the strength seemed to have gone out of Jean, and his fingers were clumsy and shaking. Locke helped Jean drunk, holding the base of the glass so it didn’t slip out. Jean took several, desperate gulps of water, and then lay back, drained.

Locke set the glass aside, and continued to mop Jean’s forehead and face, washing away the sweat and tears. “It’s just the fever. Everything will be fine—you’ll see.”

“How can it be?” Jean whispered. “ _How?_ ”

“Because…” Locke hesitated. “Because I’m here…And I’m not much, Jean, I’m not…I can’t replace Ezri for you, and I can’t be Calo, or Galdo, or Bug, or Chains, or your parents…But damn, if I won’t try my damned hardest to be worth your friendship. You dragged me back from death…We did that so we could live, didn’t we?”

Jean was crying again. “If I lose you too—”

“You’re not going to,” Locke said, laying a firm hand on Jean’s shoulder. “I’m here, Jean. I’m here.”

Jean’s eyes squeezed closed, tears spilling out. “Thank you,” he choked.

Locke’s own cheeks were wet with tears. He rubbed them away in the crook of his arm, sniffing. “Go to sleep now, you big idiot. I’ll take care of you for a change.”

Jean sniffed, but finally settled. After a few minutes, he slipped back into a troubled, feverish sleep. Locke pulled up a chair and prepared himself for a long night.

*


End file.
